Buried
by JadeScholar
Summary: Reid wakes to find himself trapped with no memory of how he got there. Character Study. Brief mentions of rape. Rated M to be safe.
1. Chapter 1

**Buried by JadeScholar  
**

_Not sure why I'm doing this. I haven't written fanfiction since the Lord of the Rings fandom was at the height of popularity, and certainly nothing like this. Yet it just sprung up in my mind, demanding to be written. This is a character study._

_I do not have a beta reader; I apologize in advance for any errors found. Reviews are also welcome. _

_And for the record, no. I have not seen the movie Buried. I have no desire to see it either. Aside from the obvious inaccuracies portrayed in the movie, I don't know that I could watch 15 minutes of it without suffering a panic attack. _

_That being said… _

**.**

**Chapter One**

The darkness is absolute.

His breath hitches. His eyes seek to penetrate the blackness, flitting about in an effort to see something… anything…

Are his eyes even open?

The smell of stale urine and sweat assault his nose. He is lying half on his side, knees slightly bent. One arm lies folded across his chest, the other resting at his side.

Panic scuttles about the edges of his mind; sharp claws scrambling for purchase.

A single hand lifts. It strikes something solid less than a foot above his body. Long fingers splay across its surface… warm… wooden… eight … no, six inches past the end of his nose. One bent leg jerks… meets with resistance. More wood. Solid. He can't completely straighten his legs. Pushing… grunting softly with the effort… body sliding upward less than an inch before the top of his head meets similar resistance. He is just over six feet tall. That means the box is several inches below six feet in length. Too small…

Panic creeps closer, its claws sinking slowly into his reason.

Calm. Deep breaths. Think. What do you last remember?

He slides his hand along the smooth wood. The box - no, coffin - is simply built. No padding. Originally built for someone of smaller stature.

A female?

His hand encounters a series of shallow divots. Narrow. Long. They feel like claw marks…

Fingers close into a fist. He strikes the wood above him. The sound is dull… heavy…

He swallows. Mouth is dry. He licks his lips. Breath comes faster… fist strikes again… again… again…

Vivisepulture.

The word is dragged from the depths of his mind, pushing past the fear. It is the act of being buried alive.

Live burial is said to be one of the most widespread of human fears.

No… no! Stop!

His hand stills.

The dark is so close… thick… suffocating…

Stop!

He chokes, throat seizing.

No!

Breathe... slow calming breaths… deeply… count them…

One.

Two.

Three.

Darkness is the relative absence of light… Not a thing but simply an absence of electromagnetic radiation that can be detected by the human eye…

From the world of darkness I did loose the demon and devils in the power of scorpions to torment.

He winces. He is quoting Charles Manson. Fantastic.

Breathe.

It is not the darkness that he fears, but that which cannot be seen… Logic tells him that there is no room for anything to hide… which only reveals other fears.

Premature burial can lead to death through asphyxiation, dehydration, starvation, hypothermia, or a combination thereof. Although human survival may be briefly extended in some environments as body metabolism slows, in the absence of oxygen, which is likely to be within one to two hours from burial time based on the consumption level, loss of consciousness will take place within two to four minutes and death by asphyxia within five to fifteen minutes.

Think… How long has he been here? How much time did he have left?

What is the last thing you remember?

His head hurts. Sore. He lowers his hand, touching his head. Short hair is slightly matted. Small aches…cuts… cheekbone bruised… There. On the right side. A lump… not too large… no wetness… no blood. Possible concussion, but he can't tell.

Breathe slowly…

Why is he here? To what purpose?

His body twitches. His body is so rarely still… the movement reveals more aches… more mysterious pains that held no association to anything in his memory.

Tiffany Cole in Jacksonville, Florida kidnapped her neighbors, bound and gagged them with duct tape, and buried them alive in a grave in Georgia…

Georgia…

"Dig faster!"

"I'm not strong enough…"

He shoves the memory away. It's not relevant.

Jenny Whitman died of asphyxiation when Dr. Stan Howard sealed her in a box while studying the effects of anxiety disorders on his victims. His final victim, Missy Cassell, was found buried alive in an elevator shaft. She survived the experience.

His brow furrows.

This would be a fitting escalation of his crimes… if Dr. Howard hadn't died from jumping off a building.

Sound. A faint whistling that rises and falls in pitch. His lips tighten and he cranes his head. Too tight… no room for much movement. Hands lift. The arm across his chest spasms in pain. Is it broken?

He reaches above his head with his good hand, feeling along the top edge of the box… there…

A small vent meets his probing fingers. Maybe two inches in diameter.

So. He wouldn't die of asphyxiation. Still, no light. Night perhaps? Or the airway is bent at some point…

"Hello?"

His voice catches. He clears his throat and tries again. Louder.

"Hello? Can anyone hear me?"

No response. The whistling continues to rise and fall.

"Help!"

Panic creeps closer, claws shredding at his thoughts. Logic starts to break down.

What is the last thing you remember?

His team. They would find him. They wouldn't stop searching.

It takes approximately two weeks to die of starvation, depending upon the initial mass of the subject.

It takes approximately three days to die of dehydration, depending upon shelter and bodily exertion.

But how long before he loses his sanity?

Concentrate! What is the last thing you remember?

Breathe.

They had a case. J.J would brief them on the plane.

His overnight bag is slung over his shoulder, next to the brown messenger bag that taps his hip as he walks across the tarmac. He looks up. The late morning sky is streaked with cirrostratus clouds. It will rain in the near future. They would be long gone from Quantico before then.

J.J. is walking in front of them. She turns her head and smiles at something Morgan says. He is carrying a box of files along with his overnight bag. Emily and Rossi walk just behind him. They are quiet, minds already on the next case. He watches their backs as they board the jet, disappearing through the hatch. He glances back to see Hotch walking behind him. He is talking on his phone, looking aggravated. Brow is furrowed. Lips are thin. Face is slightly pinched.

Hotch is talking to Strauss.

He turns back. Long legs easily take the boarding stair two steps at a time. Ducks through the hatch…

Nothing.

His breath hitches again. A trembling hand now filmed with sweat presses hard against the wood. A sound crawls from his throat… high-pitched… unfamiliar… The claws in his mind scratch deeper… closer… gripping the edges of the black hole in his nearly flawless memory. Panic overwhelms the struggle to stay calm… to breathe…

Think!

What happened? What do you remember?

Nothing… nothing.

Reid draws in a breath…

…and succumbs to the panic.

TBC…


	2. Chapter 2

_Thank you to those who left reviews. They are very much appreciated. It is gratifying to know that I am succeeding in making at least a few readers uncomfortable… and I mean that in a good way. _

**.**

**Chapter Two**

Panic eases as the energy that fed it burns away, leaving its victim exhausted. Reid's heartbeat slows from its wild racing… breathing returns to a steadier cadence… Cheeks are damp… His throat feels sore… strained…

Lips press firmly together. Mind struggles to break free of its thick fog and focus. The panic is still there… waiting… watching…

Deep slow breaths…

He closes his eyes, trading one darkness for another. It makes things less real. He can pretend he is somewhere else… which is easier said than done.

The soft whistling continues to rise and fall.

Calm.

The box is a blessing and a curse. The tactile sensation of the wood is a reminder of where he is, that he has been buried… possibly even forgotten. It's a reminder that his movement is restricted, that he is at the mercy of another, by a madman or by fate. Yet it also gives boundary to the darkness, proving that it is not eternal as his sight would claim… reminding him that there is little that could possibly hide with him in the small space… no unseen horrors waiting to strike…

It's a conundrum: to consciously touch the wood or not? Which fear was greater: the achluophobia or the claustrophobia?

He can't decide.

He shifts so his shoulder and backside rest against one side of the coffin. This means his back is guarded. It's a compromise.

Assess the situation. What do you know?

My body, Reid considers. It still aches. Feels… bruised. Sore.

Has he been in a fight? Some sort of struggle? It explains the pain. He would have fought tooth and nail before allowing himself to be put in this situation. Thankfully, other than his arm nothing seems broken. His abdomen hurts, but that could simply be due to a blow to the stomach. He only hopes his kidneys weren't injured too badly.

He shifts. Clothing feels stiff. Dropping his hand, he touches his shirt. Familiar cotton. Torn in places. Several buttons missing. No vest. No jacket. He touches his wrist. No watch. His lips twist as he lowers his hand further. Flakes come off under his questing fingers. He thinks for a moment, rubbing it between the long digits. Dirt. Dried mud. There could be dried blood, but he has no way of knowing.

His hand reaches his pockets. Empty. Where was his phone?

Calm.

Deep breaths.

Depending upon how deep he lay, a cell phone signal might not reach him anyway.

The fingers on Reid's injured arm tap a nonsensical pattern on his chest.

Can't be too deep, he figures. Despite the idea popularized by Daniel Defoe's novel _A Journal of the Plague Year_, most bodies are not buried six feet under. Even if I was, the box would have likely collapsed under the strain of all the dirt.

The light would have been nice though…

Are the others already tracking my phone, wherever it is? What will they find?

An image flashes before his eyes. Garcia, as seen through a laptop, is at her workstation, surrounded by computers, frantically searching for the tiniest lead that would help solve their latest case. It could have been an image from any of a number of cases… but no. This was different. Red hair pinned up in several braids, flashy green earrings reminiscent of fly-fishing hooks, an ochre top, sparkly green-rimmed glasses… Even without sound to accompany the memory, he knows. This is different. It doesn't associate with any remembered cases. Unless he's forgetting more than he thought…

Breathe.

Calm.

Best not to consider that at this time.

So… next question. What case had they been working on?

He focuses his mind back, before the plane. His memory of that time was still solid, still clear. J.J. walks past him dressed in black slacks, a green blouse, and her blonde hair pulled back into a tail. She looks back at him as she picks up a pile of files and a cup of coffee from the desk.

"We'll be flying into Lakeview, Oregon and driving from there." She frowns. "The area is pretty remote."

Memory shifts. A map appears in his mind. Lakeview, population 2294 according to latest census. Located east of Klamath Falls and west of Hart Mountain, a national antelope refuge. Other small towns nearby included Plush, Adel, and Frenchglen… Nearby being relative. It was approximately 41.47 miles from Lakeview to Plush… and another 71.81 miles to Frenchglen.

The image wavers. His mind closes around the memory, refusing to offer any more details. A sharp spike of fear strikes his brain…

The darkness is closing in… reaching into his mind… feeding on the darkness already there…

No! Breathe deep… steady…

Transient global amnesia, caused by mild head trauma. Symptoms usually last less than 24 hours. It would resolve itself on its own. Memories were already starting to return. Until then, he needs to figure out how to get out of his current situation.

Reid moves his hand, hesitating momentarily before brushing his fingers across side of the coffin. The shallow scratches… as though someone had already tried to get out. Would he find broken fingernails beneath him? Dried blood on the wood? The smell no longer stings his nose, but it still hovers… stale… old… he isn't the first to be trapped here.

The question is, had the previous occupant been released prior to death by dehydration, or after?

Profile the situation.

The unsub was obviously experienced. Been doing this for some time. Wasn't interested in a quick death. Sadist. He already deduced that the box was likely built for women. The question then is: why is he here?

In the wrong place at the wrong time.

He isn't sure where the thought comes from, but he accepts it as fact.

So. The air vent implies that the unsub wants to keep his victims alive for a period of time. He eventually retrieves the victims, although whether alive or dead at the time of retrieval…

Probably alive, he decides. When you consider that this place had been used before, and that there was a vent to keep his victims alive longer, I doubt the unsub would have just sat back and watched the final death. He would want a hand in it. Maybe even extend the moment out. Which means communication. Either someone dwells close enough to hear their screams for help, or there is some other means to keep track of the confined victim. A camera… or two-way radio…

He shifts. His foot strikes the end of the box and he freezes. Breathing quickens.

No… steady… calm…

His body is already stiff from lying in one position. He isn't used to being still, or lying on such a hard, unforgiving surface. His body doesn't have enough extra fat or muscle to provide more comfort. There is an ache in his back… in his hips…

Taking another deep breath, he runs his hand along the sides of the box again. There are hinges along the upper edge. Which means the weak point is on the opposite side… unless there is a latch holding the box closed. It wouldn't take much to keep someone on the inside from being unable to open it. His earlier panic had already proved that the lid wasn't lifting off any time soon.

His fingers keep exploring. After a moment he frowns. He finds what feels like a plastic covered wire tucked along the bottom edge of the box. It emerges from the vent… something he missed before in his struggle to keep his panic in check. The other end… he traces it down. The wire is loose. He tugs on it, and something rattles.

Reid's breath stops.

It's down near his thigh, behind his bent knees. He had made no notice of it in his earlier panic. This was exactly why he needed to remain calm.

He carefully pulls at the wire, drawing it upwards…

There! His fingers explore its shape. Plastic. As long as his hand… button on its side, dial on top… a two-way radio.

Relief makes his arms weak. His fingers fumble with the switch, and a tiny green light appears. It isn't enough to see by, but it is enough to ease some of the pressure in his chest.

He rests his finger on the push-to-talk button, and after a moment's hesitation, presses down.

"Hello?"

There is no answer; only static. Was the receiving end even turned on?

"Hello?" His fingers shake, the light dancing in the dark like a lone firefly in the night. He licks his upper lip. "Is there anyone there? I need help!"

The radio feels cheap. He doubts that it is repeater capable, so its range will be fairly limited.

The average hand-held radio is advertised at thirty miles given optimal conditions… no obstructions, mountain to valley… in reality the range is closer to two miles. Yet the antenna suggests a range of possibly more than two miles to the other radio. It seems a large distance to travel to keep tabs on a victim.

"Can anyone hear me?"

Maybe it was night, and the person on the other end was asleep. There was no way of knowing except…

He frowns… realizes he feels slightly chilled. It's currently late spring. If he's not buried too deep, the temperature should get progressively warmer as the day progresses or cooler with continuing night, barring meteorological disturbances such as a sudden cold front or snowfall. Although if he was buried in a grove of trees or some sort of shelter…

The wind.

The whistling sound hasn't completely stopped; the tone continuing to rise and fall in unfamiliar patterns. Like a breath of focused air over a whiskey jug. It was the wind blowing over the vent. Which increased the likelihood that he was somewhere out in the open. Potentially visible…. And possibly exposed to the sun.

His mind whirls.

While some engineering sources cite the resistance to heat flow of dirt at .25 per inch, they don't normalize for soil properties and moisture content. The accepted R-value is typically .80 at 20% moisture with one inch equivalent to approximately two feet of soil. If I could somehow track the change of temperature, I might be able to calculate depth…

Which would get me where? It wouldn't help the more immediate problem: possible impending hypothermia. And secondly…

He breathes out loudly through his nose. Even if he were only two feet under, he still doesn't have the strength to force the lid off. There was no room to maneuver. Morgan could probably shove the box open with brute force. Unfortunately, Reid's strength lay not in his physical abilities, but in his mind.

"Don't know if I'll be able to think my way out of this one," he mutters. "Never learned the magic trick of escaping from a locked box either." Once again he pushes the button on the radio. "Hello? Is anyone out there?"

Of course, if Morgan were trapped in here, he would likely be worse off. Only an inch shorter, but much broader across the shoulders and chest, he would have even less room to maneuver. Hotch wouldn't do much better. Slightly shorter, Rossi might have a bit more of an advantage. J.J. and Emily… he could imagine Emily kicking her way out. The box didn't stand a chance. And Garcia…

The image that came to mind brought a tiny smile to his lips. Garcia, vibrant makeup smeared about her face, bright red hair matted with mud, overly large handbag over one arm, crawling out of the earth like a vengeful zombie ready to deliver some serious whoop-ass on her attacker.

When he gets back it will definitely time for another zombie night marathon.

"Can anyone hear me?"

What if no one ever answers?

The thought causes his breath to quicken again. He forces himself to breathe slow and deep. No hyperventilating. All avenues must be considered. If his presence here was a spur-of-the-moment decision, an accident, then they could have abandoned all evidence on the other end; especially if he had been caught while doing an investigation. Maybe he had found something… seen something… hwe couldn't recall. But his team wouldn't give up searching until he was found. Which might put pressure on the unsub to dispose any and all evidence of his burial.

The team would find him. They would.

You have approximately three days… perhaps longer if you keep exertion to a minimum and the temperature remains at a steady, comfortable level.

Already his mouth feels dry from a combination of fear and lack of fluids.

"Is there anyone out there?" His voice quivers as he fights back panic. He coughs, clearing his throat. His eyes remain focused on the tiny spot of light.

The device runs on batteries. He can feel the panel on the back.

How long before the batteries die and the light goes out?

The radio had been switched off. He doubts the last victim had done so. Even faced with taunts and tormenting words, he can't imagine shutting off the only connection with the outside. Or turning off the only speck of light in this all-consuming darkness. Which meant it was likely that someone had turned it off after releasing their last victim. Maybe even replaced the batteries in preparation for the next. He could only hope.

.

TBC…


	3. Chapter 3

_Thank you all for taking the time to read this little story of mine. In an effort to reassure you all, never fear. The story is in fact already pretty much written. Reid will get out. However, I can't attest to his state of mind when he does… _

**.**

**Chapter Three**

Time passes, each minute like an hour and each hour an eternity. With no way of accurately determining the passage of time, the wait seems endless. The air slowly warms. Cramps start to form in his legs, in his gut… The taunting wind eventually dies, leaving Reid in silence but for the sound of his own breathing, the unsteady beating of his heart, and the occasional rumbling of an empty stomach that can't be appeased. Every so often he sends out a call on the small radio, hoping for a response, receiving nothing but static in return. Even if his abductor doesn't respond, there is always the possibility that someone else might pick up the signal… a remote chance.

It's a struggle not to move; to keep his limbs from jerking outwards. The darkness makes it easy to forget the tight confines, yet he knows he must conserve his energy. He can't afford to even sweat since who knew how long before rescue would come.

Stay calm.

Breathe.

Don't panic.

It's a mantra he repeats over and over between calling for help and the slow reciting of pi to the Feynman point. There is something calming about the numbers… constant… eternal… They were his first real love after his mother and father. His teammates would roll their eyes if he said it aloud. Another funny quirk of their resident genius. Yet it was why his first doctorate was in Mathematics, even though his mother would have preferred him studying history or literature.

When he was young and his home life was in chaos, he had latched onto planck's constant as a refuge. When it was difficult to relate to his older classmates, his mental acuity moving faster than his emotional growth, Fibonacci numbers gave him a measure of calm and stability. Mathematics was his rock, his truth.

7…7…1…3…0…

He dozes. Memories flicker past his mind's eye, as clear in his dreams as when they were initially formed…

9…9…6…0...5…1…

The world passed below him in a patchwork pattern of greens and browns where civilization had taken the upper hand, and softer browns and yellows where nature still had free rein. The Rocky Mountains were behind them, the snow capped peaks appearing tiny at this distance.

8…7…0…7…2..1…

He had tried to sleep; the case had been long and horrific. Yet he had difficulty pushing the images of burned and mutilated bodies from the forefront of his mind. Some cases were like that. Brutal. Personal. So he settled for staring out the window as the world passed by beneath them and silently reciting…

1…3…4…9…9…9…9...9…9…8

He turned his head from the window as someone approached. Tilting his head upwards, he watched Garcia move between the seats towards him from the head of the plane. Her blonde hair was piled wildly on top of her head, with a bright red flower that matched the equally bright red rims of her glasses. Her dress was fairly conservative, for her: plain blue with a white cardigan thrown over top.

She rarely traveled with them on cases; her expertise usually kept her confined to her tech station back in Quantico. Hotch had requested she come along this time. Her presence had indeed been useful, although even he had seen the strain the case had taken on her bubbly personality.

She plopped down opposite where he was sprawled, separated by the table on which she dropped her large handbag. He wasn't sure what unique items she had hidden within the bag. Her knitting for certain. Probably vast quantities of make-up that she used to paint her face into the wild portrait before him. No doubt a selection of tech gadgetry used to keep their resident tech goddess connected to her cyber world.

He gave her a small smile, which she returned with a grin.

"Let's play a game." She reached into her purse, pulled out two unfamiliar decks of cards, and began to shuffle each one separately.

"I don't know, Garcia…" He rarely played card games with his teammates anymore. They jokingly accused him of cheating, even though his mind couldn't help but count the cards, calculate the percentages of each hand… and once you knew, it was very difficult not to act on the information. He really didn't feel like dealing with the playful accusations at the moment.

"Trust me, junior g-man." Garcia's grin didn't falter. "I'll bet you've never played Munchkin before."

Reid blinked. Munchkin?

"It'll be fun! Kevin and I play it all the time. You start as a level one human. The goal is to reach level ten."

She watched him frown as she doled out his eight cards; four from each pile.

"This deck is the 'door'," she set it down between them. "And this one is 'treasure'…"

As she explained the game he looked at his first card. It showed a little cartoon man, dressed like a monk, wielding a large chainsaw. The caption above the picture read '+3 bonus – Chainsaw of Bloody Dismemberment.' He smirked.

"And here I thought you didn't like violence." He looked at his other cards. Crabs? A different cartoon man was wildly scratching at himself.

"I don't like looking through photos of dismembered and mutilated bodies, or immersing myself in the darker side of humanity on a continual basis. This is different. The first rule is to not take anything seriously. Now get ready to be crushed by my incredible awesomeness!"

The game commenced. Reid quickly grasped the rules, which were fairly straightforward. It was similar to a type of role-playing game. He had to admit, the cards were interesting, and the game was quite entertaining, and vocal. At one point J.J. peaked over the edge of the seat behind Garcia to see what they were up to, and Morgan even cracked an eye open from where he lay the couch across the aisle.

"Ha! Take that, Dr. G! Level five! I'm gonna kick your skinny little ass!"

Reid's lips compressed as he glanced at Garcia's half-human, half-orc, half-gnome thief (how was that even possible?) , and his own chainsaw wielding dwarf. They hadn't even made it through the deck, so he had no idea what cards Garcia might be holding, or what cards might possibly be drawn. He was playing blind. There were so many hidden variables. What was the highest ranking card of each category? Had it already been played? What cards were left?

And it wouldn't get any better. Garcia had mentioned that there were over thirty expansion packs and game variants. She promised that she would keep switching things up… keeping him on his toes… making it impossible for him to 'cheat'. It was incredibly frustrating. And Garcia was already ahead by three levels.

He picked up a card out of the 'door' pile….

…the nine of spades. His eyes flitted over the columns before him. Set it on the ten of diamonds… shift one column onto the nine… move the King of Diamonds into the vacated space…

"Okay everyone, let's get started." Hotch's voice broke through. " J.J?"

Reid looked up, and then swept the solitaire game into a neat pile as J.J. came over with a pile of yellow manila folders and 8x10 photographs. He glanced out the window. The dark green Appalachian Mountains passed beneath them as they jetted west. He crossed his long legs. Fingers tapped restlessly on his thigh as he turned his head to watch Emily slide into the seat next to him. A brief smile, then her face turned serious as she focused on J.J. Her expectant look was mirrored on the faces of Rossi and Hotch sitting across from him. Morgan reached over and placed an open laptop on the table between the four of them before sitting on the arm of one of the chairs opposite the table. Garcia's inquisitive face then popped up on the computer, ready to perform her tech magic with the computers back in Quantico.

"We have seven bodies, all discovered in various reservoirs within the Hart Mountain National Antelope Refuge in south-eastern Oregon." J.J. handed them each a file containing information already gathered by the local police. Reid opened his and let his eyes scan over the pages; every detailed observation and fact being permanently etched into his memory.

"The women are between the ages of seventeen and thirty," she continued. "All are white. All but one, Gracie Williams, victim number five, are local to the area. Gracie was visiting with a group of friends from Klamath Falls."

Reid flipped to the map in the back of the file. The location was indeed pretty remote, as J.J. had earlier mentioned. A few small towns surrounded the refuge, each with barely a hundred residents. A red dot marked where each body had been found, scattered seemingly at random throughout the 278,000 acre antelope refuge. Even if they couldn't get a residential lead from the placement of the bodies, a geographical profile of where the victims were last seen could at least give them insight into the unsub's hunting behavior.

"Does anyone live on the refuge?"

"The head biologist and his family live at the headquarters," J.J replied. "They are letting us stay with them as needed. Also, there are some trailers a few miles down the road from the headquarters where the seasonal techs and researchers stay. I believe there are a couple grad students doing bird studies there at the moment."

"The first death was six months ago," Rossi commented. He lifted one of the pages in the file. "Her body was found floating in a spring." He dropped the page and reached for one of the crime photos. It showed a twenty-year-old woman lying splayed in a shallow pool of water surrounded by rough grass and dirt. Her body was clothed in a simple blue bikini, which only enhanced the blue tone of her skin. Wounds covered her form: scratches, bite marks, missing fingers and toes. Most appeared to be post-mortem.

Emily grimaced as the photo slid away from her. "Looks like the body was mauled by an animal."

J.J. glanced at her file. "Coyotes. They found her first. Coroner estimates Julie Rapp was dead two days prior to being found. They originally thought she died of accidental drowning in the Antelope Hot Springs; then the coyotes dragged her body out."

"Coyotes are opportunistic and versatile carnivores," Reid put in, allowing the pages in his file to drop back down. "They prefer fresh meat, typically hunting in pairs, but will adapt if need be. It is uncommon for them to attack humans, although it does happen. Usually small children…" He trailed off as he saw J.J. wince, compressing his lips to stop the tangent. It wasn't particularly relevant anyway.

Rossi pushed the photo back and grabbed another, this one of a victim found floating in a small reservoir. Reid reached out, snagged the abandoned photo with one long finger, and drew it closer. The file indicated little sign of trauma other than the post-mortem coyote attack. The photo only confirmed it. There didn't seem to be much in the way of defensive wounds. He glanced at the other photographs. The other victims showed more obvious signs of struggle. Bruising on the face and arms, red ligature marks on the wrists… no blood though.

Morgan spoke up. "The report indicates signs of rape on all the other victims, yet although Julie had sex, everything points to it being consensual due to the lack of bruising or abrasion. She also didn't show signs of struggle."

"She must have known the unsub." Hotch set down the photo he was holding of the third victim, thirty-one year old Pauline Smith. "Did Julie have a boyfriend?"

"Yes, but he was cleared." J.J. looked up from her notes. "He was visiting family in Klamath Falls during the abduction."

"Yet she didn't go with him?" Emily's face took on a wry look. "She was seeing someone on the side. Someone knows something. It's almost impossible to keep secrets in small towns like that."

Hotch nodded. "We'll re-interview her friends and family. We'll also want to get a closer look at all the bodies. There is damage to the fingers and fingernails of six of the victims. They fought back." He glanced at the photo of Julie with her missing fingers. "She may have as well."

"They didn't find any skin or DNA beneath the remaining nail beds." Rossi noted. "Only… wood splinters.

Reid wakes with a jerk and strikes his forehead against the wood. There are a few moments of disorientation. The vividness of his dream is a stark contrast to the black reality that surrounds him. Memory is returning. He still can't recall how or why, but with the dream he has hope that the black hole in his mind is truly a temporary obstacle.

The splinters… had the team figured out where they came from? He knows now, as little as it actually helped. Six - and possibly seven or more – women had been buried here before him. None had escaped on their own. Had the unsub drowned them all after digging them up, still alive and pleading for mercy? How long had they been in the darkness before given a glimpse of light, a moment's hope?

His fingers clench, and he is reminded of the radio still gripped tightly in his hand. His fingers have become cramped around the plastic. He lifts it, eyes once again trained on the tiny green light. He presses the button.

"Can anyone hear me?"

His voice is scratchy, dry. He swallows, then coughs. It doesn't really help. How long has it been now? All he knows is that the box is starting to feel slightly warmer, which could be due to the sun or from accumulating body heat. And the ache his body seems to be worse. His neck has become incredibly stiff, as though suffering from post-whiplash. And the cramping in his abdomen is getting worse.

There is still no answer on the radio. Either this is another type of torment concocted by the unsub or his earlier assumption had been correct. Wrong place at the wrong time. He had been forgotten.

The thought brings a new wave of panic. He struggles to quell it in an effort to keep his mind clear… focused.

He is not afraid of death. He has died before and the experience, while a touch frightening in the fact that it's difficult for his mind to logically explain, had held an overwhelming sense of peace and knowing. Unfortunately, he had no control of his means of getting there, and never had he considered death by not just one but two of his strongest phobias. Upon calculating his odds of survival in his current line of work, death by gunshot figured most likely, with car accident a close second.

He shifts.

Damn.

There is a familiar and uncomfortable burning in his groin. It was just a matter of time.

He recalls a conversation he had once with his teammates several years before. It had been after a case that had taken them to the Joshua Tree National Park during a summer heat wave. The old adage that excessive heat can drive a person crazy seemed particularly apt in this case. Already diagnosed with leanings toward mental instability, James Farr only became more frenzied as dehydration and heat stroke set in. They had been close to a peaceful negotiation when he suddenly went bezerk and began killing off his hostages: a group of hikers he had run into while trying to escape.

Not all cases had happy endings, although two of the hikers had managed to survive. Once back in Quantico Morgan, J.J., Prentiss, Garcia, and Reid went to a bar to unwind with a few drinks.

"So," Morgan had started, "if you were stuck in the desert with no water, would you drink your own urine to survive?"

J.J. gave Morgan a look of disgust. "No. Absolutely not. I'd probably lose more water vomiting afterwards."

He turned to Emily, who fiddled with the straw in her rum and coke. "Maybe. There would have to be no other choice. A matter of life and death."

"Garcia?"

"The question is moot." She took a sip from her drink; a bright blue concoction that could have glowed in the dark, complete with little red umbrella. "This tech goddess has no plans on being anywhere where such a choice would need to be made."

"I don't think anyone plans to be in that situation," Emily pointed out.

"You're only tempting the fates, babygirl." Morgan gestured in her direction with his bottle of beer. "What if you somehow got locked inside that tech fortress of yours? No way out."

"There is always a way out, even if I have to hack the system to find someone to unlock the door."

"Technically, it could be possible," Reid interjected with a frown. "A terrorist could conceivably attack the building. If there was an explosion, it is possible for you to become locked inside with no means to escape. It's more likely you'd be dead, but…" He shrugged, long fingers fiddling with the napkin his drink rested upon. It was another rum and coke. Emily had ordered it despite his protests that a straight coke would have been fine.

J.J. and Emily smirked. Morgan grinned at Garcia. "He's got a point."

"Well, until such a thing occurs, no one will ever know." She looked at Reid, her face indignant. "And what about you, boy wonder? Would you do it?"

"Actually," Reid straightened, "while urine is made up on 95% water and is considered quite clean, it also contains potassium, sodium, and other waste elements secreted by the kidneys which, when re-ingested, could cause further organ damage, particularly if already dehydrated. There is a high probability of kidney failure with continued consumption. Also, if you are already dehydrated, the concentrated sodium levels would only make the dehydration worse. So while there have been documented cases of subjects participating in urophagia in survival situations, it is not generally recommended."

They stared at him for several long moments after his quickly spoken synopsis. Reid looked down, compressing his lips before take a sip of his coke, momentarily forgetting the addition of alcohol.

"I guess that's a no," Morgan finally said.

Reid shifts again as he is brought back into the present. The thought of lying in urine soaked pants is very unappealing, but it's not as if he can just pee outside the box.

The thought brings a brief, breathless chuckle to his dry lips. He is reminded of his old mentor and the reason he joined the BAU in the first place, Jason Gideon. The man was an incredible chess player, far surpassing Reid's own skills. Morgan had told him once that he would beat him when he started thinking outside the box. The words had been regarding chess, yet he had taken them to heart, learning to apply the idea to other aspects of his life.

Unfortunately, in this situation there doesn't seem to be any answers either inside or outside the box, literal or metaphorical. No matter how hard he sifts through the vast accumulation of knowledge stored within his brain, he can't come up with a way out. If the box were bigger it might be possible to break free with the right leverage, but there is just no room. He can't even twist around into a partial kneeling position to use his back to push up against the lid. He is well and truly stuck.

"Can anyone hear me?"

Silence.

His pants grow wet. There is no helping it. The warm sensation brings a touch of embarrassment, despite the fact that no one is around to see, and if he were found no one would fault him for it.

If.

When had his thoughts changed from 'when' to 'if'? They would find him. There had to be some clue left behind… some trace evidence that would lead them to this place… something in the criminal profile that would bring them here. The box took planning. The other victims were not random. They followed a type. He still couldn't recall what had occurred to bring him to this state, but so far nothing about his involvement seemed premeditated. That meant errors. Sloppiness. Mistakes. He only hoped their carelessness pushed the team in his direction rather than away.

Their?

He frowns, fingers absently tracing circles on the wood above him as he considers the thought. He is not sure where the plural pronoun originates from… but it could be possible. Likely even. One dominant, one submissive. One who enjoys the action, the doing… the other obtaining gratification from the watching and waiting. The aggressor in this case could in fact be the submissive partner, his anger and sadism kept in check by the more patient dominant.

He doesn't have enough facts to prove his theory, but it feels right. It could be something he and the others had already deduced, and the memory only returning in fits and spurts. He only wishes he could remember more.

How long had he been here? A full day? Maybe longer? Did the box feel cooler than before?

He reaches up to touch the vent. Definitely cooler.

Suddenly there is another sound, rising above the sighing of the wind. It's high pitched and eerie, undulating like the barking of a small dog, only louder, and at times ending with a howl that strikes the nerves. Coyotes, his mind supplies. Which means there aren't likely to be any people close by.

For a brief moment he actually feels safe, trapped where the carnivores can't find him. Chances were they wouldn't attack him anyway, but he remembers the picture of Julie Rapp…

"Please, is there anyone out there who can hear me?"

There is still no answer.

.

TBC...


	4. Chapter 4

_It has been a long time since I have been to the Refuge. Details are fading some, but I still recall the beauty. I also remember a story about a bathtub; however, I was never able to verify it. This chapter is dedicated to that tub…_

_Enjoy._

_._

**Chapter Four**

He'd had an offer to work for Nasa, but turned them down. At nineteen, he held a BS in psychology, doctorates in Mathematics and Chemistry, and was nearly ready to submit his thesis in Engineering. It had seemed an obvious choice for someone of his abilities, and aerospace engineering did have a certain appeal. Studying the aerodynamic characteristics and behavior of rockets and other aircraft, helping to design new, improved (and less expensive) flight modules… it was the dream of many. Yet it had seemed limiting somehow.

Then he met Jason Gideon.

He had seen the man walking though campus, but had no notion of who he was. His mind only made note of him, storing his image as it did everything and everyone else he saw, before moving on. Then one day Reid was sitting in the commons contemplating the next move on the cheap chessboard resting before him. He would remember the day as accurately as he did any day in his life, but this one perhaps a bit more vividly than most others. It was a Tuesday in early March. The weather was warm; not unusual for southern California. The commons were half-full of students, some studying for their next exams, others taking a break from their books to enjoy the bright sunshine.

Suddenly the seat opposite him was no longer empty. He hadn't even heard the man come over, so great was his contemplation of possible moves and outcomes on the board before him.

"Do you mind if I join you?"

A frown had momentarily twisted Reid's lips as he looked up, more from surprise than annoyance. They then quirked upwards in a half-smile. The man's voice had a low, soothing cadence. Smooth like old whiskey, some would say, although since he rarely drank, Reid couldn't really say if the analogy was completely correct.

He ducked his head a little, tucking the stray strands of hair nervously behind his ears as he replied.

"No, no… of course." He paused, then gestured towards the pieces with his long fingers. "Do you play?"

"A little."

Reid scanned the long, weathered face. He looked like an old droopy hound dog. There was something almost… paternal about the man. Yet not at all similar to his own father; more like his grandfather. Both sets of his grandparents had died when he was young, their memories residing in the hazy fragments of his young mind. But this man somehow made those fragments jump into the forefront of his thoughts.

He tried to read the friendly face, something he knew he had difficulties with but had become better at over time. It was useful tool; it was always helpful to know whether someone's interest was genuine, or if they were just bullies waiting for the opportune moment to strike. He knew that many assumed he was completely oblivious to subtle expression of emotion, mostly due to the fact that when he got on a subject that interested him his excitement took over, his brain and mouth moving so fast that he tended to forget about those listening. It was only afterwards, as they were trying to inch away and find someone more normal to converse with, did he realize his faux pas. The embarrassment that followed tended to cause him to shut down entirely.

The face of the man before him was difficult to read. He projected an air of friendly patience, like he had all the time in the world. Yet Reid sensed that the expression wasn't entirely truthful. It almost felt like he was being surreptitiously studied.

His fingers hesitated a moment before resetting the chess pieces. He was suddenly very interested in knowing just how much 'a little' was.

"You start," the man said.

Reid frowned, and then turned the board so he was playing the white pieces. Traditionally, the white player was thought of as being at a small advantage as the black player struggled to neutralize the white and achieve equality of play. Reid usually played black since he tended to be better than the majority of his opponents. This meant that the man opposite him was either being polite, or he knew more about the game than he was letting on.

He moved his first pawn. After a moment the man countered with a pawn of his own. They continued in silence for about ten minutes, with the time between moves increasing incrementally with each play. Reid found that the older man was watching him more than he actually looked at the board. This confirmed his earlier suspicions: he was being observed. It was disconcerting. Reid didn't care for the scrutiny. He found himself twitching his fingers nervously. Why was this man here? There was definitely more to this than a simple game of chess.

"Checkmate in two."

Reid blinked, scanned the board, and realized the other man was correct. What had just happened? He hadn't lost a game so quickly in… five years, six months, three days. He looked carefully at the pieces, playing them backwards in his mind. There… that was where he went wrong… and there… he wouldn't have even considered that move. Too dangerous if you didn't know your opponent. Yet the man had been patient… thoughtful… never once appearing concerned about the movement of a piece. And while he didn't aggressively sacrifice pieces, he also didn't seem afraid of losing a few if the need arose.

He looked up. The older man was watching him expectantly. Whatever he was thinking was hidden behind his placid, friendly demeanor.

"Would you like to play again?"

Reid nodded. Despite the uncomfortable scrutiny, he was desperate to know…

Together they reset the board. Once again the man allowed Reid the first move. This time the game lasted longer, although the end result was still the same.

"That was good," the man remarked after calling for checkmate. Reid gave him an incredulous look.

"I lost twice in a row. I hardly ever lose."

"You learn from your mistakes. Your only fault is that you tend to think too linearly. That can be fixed."

Reid compressed his lips, and then looked at the board in an attempt to figure out what this man meant.

"I've heard about you, Dr. Reid." At that Reid's head shot up, his expression wary. "PhD's in mathematics and chemistry, with another on the way. It's very impressive."

Reid pressed his hands against his thighs in an attempt to still them. "You want something. Who are you?"

"My name is Jason Gideon. I work for the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI."

Oh yes, Reid thought, his lips twisting slightly. That explained the feeling of being profiled. But he didn't look like an FBI agent, or at least he didn't fit the common perception. Casual jeans, black t-shirt with a blue dress shirt thrown carelessly over it… he looked more like a retired professor.

It also didn't explain why he was here. Was he in the middle of some investigation? If so, Reid doubted he would be able to be of assistance.

"Why did you only get a BS in psychology?" Gideon asked. "Why not continue on towards a Masters or Doctorate?"

Reid shrugged, some of his discomfort easing. Was this man some sort of recruiter then? During the last year he had been wooed by several major organizations, including the Army Corps of Engineers and the military. It hadn't been difficult to turn them down. The military had made the mistake of sending in one of their ranking pentagon officials – a former jarhead. The thinly-veiled derision the man had shown upon catching sight of his prey had been hard to miss. This was someone who valued physical strength over mental ability. Years later, a man would insultingly call Reid a pipecleaner with eyes; a fairly accurate, if slightly humorous assessment. He was tall and skinny, although Reid preferred the term sinewy since it implied a certain tensile strength. And his obvious youth tended to cause others to underestimate his abilities.

The recruiter – a typical bully in Reid's estimation – was no threat to his mindset. The military was not an option. The recruiter's expression when Reid began spouting off war and weapons statistics had quickly changed from barely-concealed disdain to a sort of strained fascination that one might expect if one were observing their first flying monkey: fascinating, potentially useful, a bit disconcerting, but nothing that would ever garner much respect.

"Why do you want to know?" Reid asked.

"Just… curiosity."

Reid's fingers continued to twitch on his thigh. He had a feeling that his usual excuse – that the subject had failed to hold his interest – wouldn't work with this man. But neither was he comfortable explaining the truth…

He had wanted to learn more about himself, about how his brain worked, about his mother's illness. He would never admit that he sometimes feared his own mind. Everyone saw him as gifted; few understood that the gift was a double-edged knife. Neuroscience was still a young field of study. Who really understood how the brain actually worked or why his worked so much differently than that of the average person? And what if something went wrong? What if he eventually went crazy? His brain was already abnormal… how much further could it slip? The genetic predisposition to schizophrenia was already present. He had grown up caring for a woman who spent half her life living in an altered state of reality; the thought of joining her there frankly scared the shit out of him.

After receiving his initial degree in Psychology with a focus on psychosis and behavioral studies, and then doing some more private research on his own, he decided to move on to something a bit easier and not as emotionally taxing: chemistry. Maybe if he ignored the problem, it would go away. He was good at avoidance techniques. He doubted he would have made it through his childhood relatively intact without some sort of defensive mechanism. His mind may not allow him to forget, but if he filled it with enough other things, perhaps he could bury fear. He wasn't very good at quantifying his emotions anyway, and most people seemed to expect it of him; the eccentric genius with awkward social skills and low emotional IQ. It was so cliché.

"I...um… discovered what I was looking for though self study and didn't feel I needed to pursue the degree further."

Gideon nodded, his expression still unwavering.

Reid merely shrugged, and after a moment began to reset the chess pieces again. "I still keep up on some of the current research. Klaus Scherer just published a book on appraisal processes in emotion. He defends the claim that emotions are elicited by evaluations of events and situations rather than just motivational processes, psychological processes, peripheral autonomic activity, expressions, fight or flight, or merely the events themselves. In several appraisal models, one appraisal distinguishing sadness from anger is whether the person perceives control potential in the situation to be high or low…" He slowed his words to a halt, realizing that while Gideon wasn't doing anything to stop the fast flow of information, neither was he really paying attention to what was being said. He was simply watching.

Reid twitched his lips. He wasn't sure why he even brought the article up. "Was there something else you needed?"

"Actually, yes. I have been asked to present a series of lectures on Criminology and Behavioral Analysis. I'd like for you to attend. I'm not here to recruit, at least not at this time. Just consider this an opportunity to explore a new direction. Think on it." He stood. "You might find it worth your while. And perhaps we can play again soon."

He walked away, leaving Reid confused. FBI? Criminology? It wasn't a track he had even considered. His mother would have a fit if she thought he was joining up with a government agency known amongst the paranoid for their secrets and hidden agendas.

At least the man hadn't looked at him like some fascinating new species of amoeba.

And he had beaten him at chess.

Twice.

It wouldn't hurt to attend one of the lectures.

It was a decision he never regretted.

He is so hungry; so thirsty. His stomach feels like it's gnawing on his ribs, while his head aches with the lack of water. His lips are dry and starting to crack. The saliva in his mouth is thick. What he wouldn't give for something to drink. A soda. Coffee. Water. Anything.

"Is anyone there?" His voice rasps, more of a whisper than any true vocalization. The wind had stopped again, and even the coyotes had abandoned him.

His clothes are bothering him. The wet pants are irritating to his skin. Even in the places that are dry, the dirt and the slight sheen of sweat has changed their texture, making the cloth increasingly uncomfortable. He has always been acutely aware of his issues with tactile hypersensitivity. It is why he cuts all the tags off his clothes, only buys new shoes when the old ones have completely fallen apart, always wears freshly washed clothing, tends to wear his wristwatch outside the cuffs of his shirts, and prefers to wave in greeting rather than shake hands. He had gotten better at dealing the problem. Most people never really noticed. But the darkness – and the lack of sight – has only made his other senses more heightened. Touch is becoming progressively more painful.

It's just one more thing to add to his list of complaints.

He drifts… away from the pain… he can pretend that his body is gone… let his mind float in a sea of memories…

He looked out over the barren landscape. To the north and east grayish-brown hills rose up, their tops still dotted with snow. To the south and west low rolling hills of sage, bunchgrass, and the occasional juniper stretched to the horizon. On the drive up he had observed a small herd of the antelope this area was set aside to protect. There were supposedly big-horn sheep, sage grouse, and a plethora of coyotes, but he had yet to see any.

Reid turned and finished walking up the low rise to where Rossi waited. The path was rocky, and he was obliged to take his time due to his knee, which had been afflicted by a gunshot wound some time back. While he no longer needed assistance to walk, he remained cautious. It still twinged occasionally, especially on such uneven ground.

At least Rossi wore something more sensible to wear on his feet than Italian-made loafers, he thought as he stepped up next to the older man. He was gazing down at the dump site of the last body found. The photograph had shown a girl lying in a bathtub, and here it was: an old-fashioned, cast iron, claw-footed bathtub sitting by itself in the middle of nowhere. A small hotspring had been haphazardly plumbed so that it filled the tub. A hole had been drilled near the top for the water to continually flow out. From there it formed a tiny streamlet that quickly disappeared back into the desert.

"Nice view," Rossi commented. You could see for miles from this vantage… and anyone for miles could see you. Reid couldn't imagine wanting to bathe somewhere so exposed. "He's definitely not making any attempt at hiding the bodies."

"How many people come out here?" Reid turned around. You could see the road cutting through the scrubland, but no other sign of civilization. "Who found her?"

The officer who had escorted them spoke. "Some of the local kids come out here and have small parties. They tend to clean up after themselves. Since there haven't been any complaints we just let it be for now. It was a couple of kids from Frenchglen who found her."

Rossi nodded. "Did they disturb the body?"

"No. They immediately called the police."

"Huh." Reid considered the photos that they had left back in the SUV. "Her body was basically dumped. The unsub didn't bother posing her."

"He sees these women as garbage," Rossi said. "He has a definite hatred towards the opposite sex. Probably has a history of rejection by females."

"But why the drowning? This doesn't feel like a cleansing. And he's already raped them. There is no impotence to suggest drowning as a means of sexual gratification unless it's a secondary release."

"It could simply be another form of torture. A final display of mastery over the victim."

Reid bit his lip, thinking about the case files he has read and the information gathered since their arrival. The bodies were being held at the Lake District Hospital in Lakeview. Reid, Rossi, and Emily had visited the bodies prior to driving out, which had revealed new facts not written in the original report. "We know he keeps them confined before bringing them here. The coroner mentioned starvation and severe dehydration prior to the drowning. What if the unsub denies them water as… a sort of revenge? The same way these women denied him a chance at a relationship. Or consensual sexual gratification. The intentional dehydration could be a euphemism for the denial of sex. Drowning is like… killing them using that which they originally denied him."

Rossi raised a single eyebrow. Reid shifted from one foot to the other, looking back at the lone tub sitting in the middle of nowhere. It was like something out of a Terry Gilliam movie.

"But then why the actual rape?"

Reid shrugged. "Could there be more than one unsub?"

"Possibly." Rossi finally said. "It's something to work with."

The scene shifts. It was night, with only the stars and the distant crescent moon lit the lonely landscape. No distant towns to provide a beacon in the darkness, or lamps to light the thin ribbon of road. The landscape was flat desert sage with hills receding slowly behind and another tall ridge somewhere ahead.

The SUV's headlights cut through the darkness along the road between Lakeview and Plush, headed for the refuge headquarters just beyond. It had been two days since the team had arrived, and already Reid was tired of the long roads and longer distances between abduction sites, dumping sites, and suspects. Yet they were closing in on their target. They had a profile, narrowed down the list of suspects… they were hopeful that the case would be solved before the next victim, Mary Ann Kramer, died.

She had been declared missing shortly after they arrived. A pretty young woman of twenty-five years, she had last been seen in Frenchglen. Coworkers said left the hotel where she worked with the intention to spend the evening home alone. Yet it appeared she never made it. No one noticed anything suspicious, although the night before there had been reports of a disagreement with a young man in the town's only bar. Unfortunately, the man had been cleared as a suspect, and they were left without any positive leads.

Reid yawned, and then fiddled with the knob on the radio. Most of the stations in this area played either country or religious music. Neither genre was quite to his taste. Finally he gave up and shut it off. He wished he hadn't left his mp3 player back home. He was all alone in the car and could have played anything he wanted without censure. Erik Satie. Dr Demento. The short stories of H.P. Lovecraft read by Patrick Stewart.

J.J. had stayed behind at the Lakeview police station. Henry had taken sick, and while she wasn't about to leave the case, the cell phone reception out here could get sketchy and she needed to be available in case Will called. Reid briefly wondered how his godson was doing. It was probably nothing more than a bad ear infection –

Something raced across the road just ahead of the SUV. Reid slammed his foot on the brake, swerving to avoid hitting it. The SUV squealed as the tires burned the road. Heart racing, he managed to come to a jerking stop without any harm to vehicle or animal. His mind, momentarily startled into a blank state, returned to life in full force. A coyote. Likely off hunting rabbits or voles. Or scavenging for more dead bodies to gnaw on.

He grimaced, and then with a more cautious tread started the car moving again.

After about five minutes lights appeared ahead. They were still some distance off, but approaching fast. He turned down his brights, but frowned when he wasn't offered the same courtesy. Squinting, he realized the opposing vehicle was weaving dangerously over the center line. He slowed further.

A couple of drunk kids, he figured. It was difficult to tell the make from this angle… older pickup came to mind, although cars really weren't his forte.

Last year, 136 people died as a result of drunk driving related crashes in Oregon.

Reid frowned as the statistics moved to the forefront of his mind.

One in three people will be involved in an alcohol-related crash in their lifetime.

They really weren't good odds.

For a moment it looked as though he would pass safely; that the other driver was at least aware of his presence and was finally attempting to stay in the proper lane. He relaxed minutely.

Suddenly the car seemed to leap out in front of him.

Reid yanked on the wheel. The world spun, screeching assaulting his ears…

An explosion… A flash of pain as his head was knocked back…

And then nothing.

.

TBC...


	5. Chapter 5

_Umm… yeah. So, the warning applies here. The story sort of got away from me…_

_._

**Chapter Five**

He wakes with a gasp, but other than that he hardly moves. He feels so weak… lethargic… feverish… the cramping in his abdomen has become worse. He wants to curl in on the pain, but can't maneuver….

Car crash. The pieces are slowly fitting together. It explains the aches… the cuts… the pain in his neck… but not all of it. How did he get from there to here? Had the unsubs found him on the side of the road?

He glances down. The tiny green light is gone. The batteries in the radio have died. He knows he should feel more concern, but he can't summon the energy. He can't concentrate. Is it just dehydration, or something else? Infection perhaps? Images and thoughts flit through his mind… memories of people and experiences mixed with equations that make no sense…

There is a scratching sound, so faint he almost misses it. Voices… indistinct… the pitch rising and falling…

He sucks in a breath. A shaking hand lifts to press against the lid of the box.

"Hello? I'm here!" He tries to shout, but the words are coarse… guttural. Yet someone must have heard him. The voices grow louder; the scratching sound intensifies.

Hope fills him. Finally, someone has come. He has been found. It will be all right.

A small smile crosses his lips. He can't wait to see the others again.

But… what if it isn't the team?

The smile dissolves.

What if his assumptions were wrong? What if the unsubs had come back to finish what they had started?

The thought brings a spike of fear that tempers the hope in his heart. He has no strength left to fight. His thoughts are slow… sluggish… becoming more chaotic. He doubts he would be able to outwit any opponent either.

Not that you were able to before…

The thought comes out of nowhere. Before… when? There had been a few cases that had required him to talk down a violent offender, and not all had been successful. Yet… that wasn't it. There was something else… something recent…

Something scrapes across the lid of the box. His breath quickens. More scraping… pounding... the lid lifts…

The first thing he sees are stars shinning brilliantly from the heavens. Then there are lights that travel over his body, illuminating the dirt, the torn clothes, the cuts and bruises.

Emily Prentiss's face comes into view. "Oh, thank god! Just a moment… we'll get you out of there!"

Reid slowly sits, relishing the movement despite the stiffness in his body. He wants out of this box as soon as he can conceivably get there. He had been correct in his earlier assumption: the box had indeed been buried in only about two feet of soil.

"Hey there, pretty boy." Morgan drops down into the box behind him. His voice is soft; the usual joking toned down. It normally irks him when Morgan calls him that, but now he is just happy to hear the familiar teasing voice. "How'd you manage to get yourself into this mess?"

Reid frowns. He still can't quite remember. Morgan grasps his good arm and helps him to stand. His legs shake dangerously, long limbs protesting the movement. The stomach pain recedes some. His injured limb he keeps close to his chest. The flesh is swollen and dark with bruising.

"How long?"

"Three days." Hotchner appears on his other side. With his and Morgan's help he steps out of the hole. He blinks, looking around. Rossi and J.J. are standing a few steps back. Two other men are just behind them, staring at him, but Reid can't make out any of their features in the darkness.

"Here." J.J. steps forward with a smile, holding out a bottle with the cap already removed. Reid accepts it with a shaking hand. He would like to drain the entire contents in one go, but knows enough to realize that it wouldn't be a smart idea. Instead he takes a small sip. The cool liquid fills his dry mouth and parched throat. Never has plain water tasted so good.

"How did you find me," he asks, still leaning on Morgan for support. He glances around again. He is in the middle of a shallow depression. A tall cairn of stacked stones marks the location of the coffin. About forty feet away is an old pick-up truck. No other vehicles could be seen.

Unease settles in his gut. Something about this isn't right.

"We have these men to thank," Rossi says, gesturing to the two men just behind him. Reid squints. One is slightly shorter than the other, while the taller is about the same size as Hotch. Both are wearing faded jeans and the shorter has a cap pulled low over his brow. They seemed youngish… mid to late twenties maybe. Yet their faces remained in shadow, making it hard to tell for certain.

"They were hunting coyotes in the area when they saw the pipe and the wire."

Reid looks back towards the hole. Sure enough, sticking out from the top of the cairn was a black pipe with a wire looped around it.

He takes another sip of the water. "Did you find out who…?" A sudden intense cramp in his abdomen causes him to suck in a shallow breath. He really needs to sit down…

"We had a positive lead, but the suspects disappeared shortly after we found the body of Ms. Kramer." Hotch says. His voice is cold. The anger would be justified. None of them like losing a case. Yet something feels off. Reid darts his eyes in his supervisor's direction. His face is stern, lips twisted down in annoyance. Steely dark eyes are focused on him, as though Reid were the cause of the irritation. What was going on here?

He looks at the others. They all just stand there, watching. Why aren't they doing anything? Shouldn't they be getting to the vehicles? Why are they just watching him?

He turns his gaze to Emily. Her eyes now hold an unfamiliar chill, and her expression is one of both pity and disgust. His heart lurches. What's going on? His eyes flit to the others, noting the similar expressions on their faces. There are only minor variances… Rossi especially looks annoyed. Reid had often felt that the older man saw him as nothing more than an overeager kid, although he thought things between them had been improving.

He casts his eyes down. It is then he notices the bottle in his hand has turned from clear plastic to an aluminum beer can. His hand spasms as fear shocks his spine. The can drops, rolling a few feet away, spilling its foaming contents over the dirt. The cramps in his gut increase. His legs suddenly give out. Morgan's bracing hand disappears, leaving him to collapse to the rocky ground. He licks his lips as he hunches over, fighting back any vocalization of pain. When he looks up again, the team is gone. The two men have also disappeared, leaving only the box in the ground behind him and the truck parked on top of the depression.

A guttural scream breaks the night. Reid jerks his head in the direction of the truck. It came from somewhere beyond…

Summoning all his strength, he scrambles out of the depression. Rocks slide beneath his feet… sage tears beneath his fingers, the sharp scent stinging his nose… hands and feet bleed from the jagged stones cutting into his flesh…

He reaches the back of the truck and uses the bumper to brace himself as he stands. Another depression lies just beyond, virtually identical to the one he just left, right down to the cairn and the dark hole. He glances back, but the way is flat, stretching to the star-speckled horizon.

Head spinning, he turns back to the depression, and freezes. There are four people down there, their forms lit by two gas lanterns. A woman lies naked upon the rough ground. Mary Ann Kramer; their missing victim. Even from this distance he can see the glazed look in her eyes. Severe dehydration has caused her to slip into a state of delirium. She barely struggles against the man lying over her, his movements rhythmic… primal…

Feeling his stomach churn with nausea, he shifts his gaze to the other side of the depression where all he can see is the back of another man crouched on the ground. There is someone in front of him, but the view is blocked.

Cold laughter… a low guttural moan…

"Should I pull the trigger?"

The rough voice floats towards Reid's ears. He looks around for a weapon, a gun, anything to stop the horrible scene from continuing. He knows if he calls their attention to himself, he would likely end up as just another victim. His legs quiver beneath him, a reminder that his strength is nearly gone. The cramps in his gut are growing more frequent... more intense…

Think… think… what to do…

He looks over at the cab of the truck. Maybe there is something in there he can use. And if they left the keys in the ignition… He takes a step, only to stumble and drop painfully to his knees. He grits his teeth, struggling to rise again…

He hears movement from below. He turns his head to look. Both men are standing. The man in the ball cap fastens his pants as he saunters over to his companion.

"She's all yours."

"Here." The taller man thrusts an object at his partner. It's a rifle. The barrel is stained with streaks of blood. The sight causes bile to rise in Reid's throat.

"Hey! This was my gun, asshole! You better plan on cleaning it when we get back!"

"Just get him into the box." The taller man walks over towards the girl, ignoring his partner's ire.

"Damn, fucking… he coulda used his own gun…"

Reid can now see the fourth figure on the ground. For a moment the lightly built, youthful form seems familiar, but the feeling quickly dissipates. He has never seen this man before. He lies curled half on his side, arms wrapped around his body as though holding in the pain. His body is badly beaten, shirt and pants torn... Blood oozes from several cuts on his face and arms. Then Reid's view is blocked by the man in the hat.

Darkness fills the edges of his vision. He has to reach the front of the truck, but weakness is dragging him down…

"Not such a mouthy know-it-all anymore, are ya…"

Reid watches as the man in the cap grabs the youth by the legs and starts dragging him towards the hole. At first the young man doesn't even struggle, shock having sent him into a momentary stupor. Then he unexpectedly lashes out… twisting… striking his tormenter hard behind the knee with a rock.

"Fuck!" The man clutches at his injured leg as the younger man scrambles away.

"Shit, Michael!" The other man rises up from where he had been occupied with the woman. "Can't you do anything right?"

"Oh, I'll get him…" Michael stands and limps painfully towards his prey with his gun at ready. When he reaches the scuttling form, he reverses his hold on the rifle and strikes the young man hard on the head. He collapses immediately.

"No!"

Reid loses his grip on the truck. Darkness crashes down like an ocean wave. There is nothing left to see…

Words follow him down… cruel… mocking…

"Should have minded your own business."

"…annoying fucker…"

"I thought these guys were supposed to be tough. He's just a damn fag."

"I think… here! Look!"

"Your friends ain't never gonna find you…"

"Maybe later we'll haul you out as coyote bait."

"Reid! Can you hear me?"

"You're gonna regret that…"

"Are you there!

"Should I pull the trigger?"

"He's here!"

"Oh my god… we need a medic!"

.

_Epilogue to follow_


	6. Epilogue

_Thank you to everyone who has followed this little tale of mine. _

_._

**Epilogue**

The first thing that breaks through the darkness of his unconsciousness of is beeping. It is steady… rhythmic… constant. There is no whistling of the wind, no howling chatter of the coyotes, no taunting of voices; only a singular high-pitched noise that shows no signs of ceasing.

One.

Eight.

Twenty-seven.

His fingers twitch, blood pulsing to the rhythm. He continues reciting to the beeps…

Sixty-four.

One hundred twenty-five.

Two hundred sixteen.

A rustling sound briefly enters his consciousness. Movement.

His breath hitches. He knows he should open his eyes, but fear holds him back. What if this is but another hallucination? What if he is still trapped in the box?

The beeping sound speeds up. He moves his hand to the side, holding his breath as he waits for resistance of some sort… and finds none. Space… nothingness… he lets his hand hover for a moment, finding pleasure in the emptiness, in the lack of tactile sensation, before placing it back onto the surface below.

He scrunches his face, noting the clean, sterile smell. There is something lying across his face, just beneath his nose, encouraging the air to move into his body. He doesn't care for the feel of the thin plastic against the skin of his upper lip and cheeks, but he knows better than to remove it.

There is another rustling sound, followed by the dull snap of a book closing. The sound makes him flinch. He opens his eyes.

The brightness causes his head to ache, which only brings attention to the other aches that permeate his body, particularly those in his arm and abdomen. He quickly shuts his eyes, lifts his hand, and pauses. He is still not entirely convinced that this is not just another trick of the mind.

"Come on, kid. Time to wake. You're safe now."

Reid frowns and cracks open a single eye. Rossi? It was… unexpected. Hotch was listed as his power of attorney in case of emergency and Morgan as his secondary contact. He would have sooner expected Emily at his bedside than the gruff Italian.

He opens his other eye. It really isn't all that bright; it only feels that way. The lights are dimmed and curtains drawn. The hospital room is filled with machinery taking continual readings of his vitals from the various tubes and wires attached to his body. On the table near the door is a large bouquet of flowers that screams Garcia. He turns his head. In a chair next to the bed sits the older agent, thick book closed in his lap as he expectantly watches his charge. There is no one else in the room.

He tries to speak, but all that emerges is a croaking sound. His throat is still so dry… he tries to lick his chapped lips, but there is isn't enough moisture to provide even the semblance of relief.

"Here." Rossi sets the book on the table and exchanges it for a paper cup with a bent straw. Reid eyes him carefully. Where are the others? Rossi's face doesn't show any trace of irritation or annoyance. No pity as it had before… but that had all been a dream, right? Now he can only see patience and open relief to see his colleague finally awake.

He watches as Rossi leans forward to hit a button beside the bed to alert the nurse on duty. Then he holds the cup while Reid hesitantly takes a few sips. He tries to hold the cup himself, but his hand shakes too much. The cool liquid fills his dry mouth and parched throat. He can't help the shudder that pulses down his spine, recalling a similar feeling from before…

"Thanks." Reid says as Rossi steps back. His voice is rough, but it sounds better than it did. He glances down at his left arm. It's bound in a cast from wrist to elbow.

So he had been correct in his initial assumption.

"Where…?"

"St Charles Hospital in Bend. You had to be transferred because of the severity your injuries. The others are still in Lakeview cleaning up. They'll come by when they're done."

He is about to speak again when the door to the room opens. A young woman steps inside dressed in bright blue scrub pants and a top covered in little cartoonish bears. She looks too cheerful to be real.

"You're awake." She smiles and walks over to the clipboard hanging from the end of the bed. "Now try not to move around too much. You don't want to pull any stitches." She takes a reading from the one of the machines, writes it down, and then moves over to check the IV bag. "You're looking great. I'll just let the doctor know you're awake then."

She leaves. Rossi looks at him, his expression amused.

"You actually look like hell."

Reid gives the older man a wry look, but inwardly feels a touch of relief. He appreciates Rossi's blunt honesty.

"Stitches?" He lightly touches his abdomen. There were bandages beneath the ugly hospital gown, and he can feel the wound throbbing painfully.

"Yeah. You were in pretty bad shape." Rossi starts to look vaguely uncomfortable.

"What happened?"

He sits back down. "We're hoping you can tell us. We found your vehicle abandoned off the highway with your gun, badge, and phone inside. It looked like you had been in some sort of accident, but other than some tire tracks there was no sign of a secondary vehicle."

"It was a pickup truck." Reid's brow furrows. His memory is still a bit off. "It was weaving all over the road. I swerved to avoid it…" He pauses, struggling to separate memory from hallucination. "I think I was taken by two men. The unsubs. I saw Mary Ann Kramer. And… someone else. Another man. Mary is dead, isn't she?"

Rossi nods. "James Lee and Michael Streichen were ID'ed by a couple of researchers who saw them dumping her body. We confronted them at their home, but they forced us to shoot. Mr. Streichen was killed. Mr. Lee is currently on life support."

That explains why it had taken so long for them to find him. He doubts the two murderers kept a map handy detailing how to find the place they used to torture their victims.

"How did you find me?"

"Again, we got lucky. Turns out a flock of the birds the researchers were studying were nesting near where you were buried. They called the biologist after they noticed the unusual pile of rocks and heard noises coming from beneath."

"I just wish I had been lucky enough not to get caught in the first place. But what about the third man I saw?" He is unable to stop the shudder from running down his spine. "He looked badly injured."

Rossi shakes his head. "We never found any trace of another male victim, but we can have Garcia check missing person reports."

Reid frowns. _Another_ male victim. That means they consider him to be the first male victim. He doesn't like having the term being used in reference to himself. "Yes. He could have-"

He is interrupted by the door opening once more. This time a stern-featured older gentleman steps inside wearing a white lab coat over brown slacks and a causal shirt. Tucked under one arm is a thin folder. He closes the door behind him as he moves forward to stand closer to the bed.

"Dr. Reid. It's nice to meet you. I'm Dr. Burchfiel, the attending physician currently in charge of your care." He briefly smiles as he pulls the chart out from beneath his arm and opens it. "I'm glad to see you're awake. You're a very fortunate young man. While the majority of your injuries were superficial, you nearly died of septic shock."

Septic shock?

Reid blinks in surprise. It explains the abdominal pain, the horrible cramping, the fever… he had assumed it was simply caused by dehydration combined with infection. But how had it happened? Something tickles the back of his mind…

"We preformed a laparoscopic operation and were able to repair the ruptures with minimal removal of any portion of the bowel or colon."

"Um… that's good…" Reid's confusion is obvious. Dr. Burchfiel looks at Rossi, who then stands.

"I'm going to go down and call the others to let them know you're awake. I'll be back shortly."

"No, wait… please." He knows that look. He knows what the doctor is going to say, and he has a feeling Rossi thinks the same. Fortunately, they have it all wrong.

"Diverticulitis." The word pops out of his mouth. "Inflammation of the diverticula which can then become infected, causing blockages. It would have been aggravated by the dehydration, causing perforations that no doubt led to the septic infection."

"Dr. Reid, that may be true but in this case there were signs of-"

"No, there wasn't," Reid interrupts. "I'm assuming you ran a… a rape kit?" The words don't come easily. This isn't something he feels he should defend himself against, but he has to block the assumption before it goes any further.

"Yes." Dr. Burchfiel flips a page in his chart. "It came back negative."

"See? I'm fine. Nothing happened."

"Negative results are not necessarily proof against sexual assault. Your-"

"Dr. Burchfiel." Reid's voice is firm despite his aching head. The lights are still too bright, and the bedclothes against his skin suddenly too rough. The increasingly irritating sound of the heart monitor grows quicker as his heart rate speeds up. The sensory overload is growing, and his frustration is only making it worse. He would like to see the chart - to know exactly what it says about him – but he knows it won't be possible. At least not at this time. "I don't mean to insult your intelligence, but believe me. I have an eidetic memory. I would know. I was kidnapped and kept in box for an extended period. That is all."

"Reid, it's okay." Rossi reaches out to touch the back of his hand in a comforting gesture. "Calm down."

The younger man pulls his hand away, not wanting platitudes, not wanting the touch. So he lied a bit… his memory concerning recent events wasn't in the best of shape at the moment, but he wasn't about to let on the fact. At least Morgan would have believed him. "I am calm. I am simply trying to explain to you both that I have been afflicted with intestinal issues for some time now. Nothing… nothing _sexual_ happened to me when I was with… those men. Nothing."

He closes his eyes. Maybe he really was trapped in another hallucination. The last one also seemed quite real at the beginning.

"There was that other man," he continues, voice growing softer with the memory. "The unsub… the taller one… I think he… he sodimized the man with… with a shotgun. I saw it, but I couldn't stop it. I tried… "

He misses the look exchanged between the two men.

"I'm not weak."

He doesn't mean for the others to hear the whispered words, but they escape his lips before he can pull them back. He just wishes he could have been there sooner; that he could have done something to stop the men before…

"No one ever implied you were." The voice is Rossi's. Reid nods slightly, but keeps his eyes closed. His mental processes have been aggravated by recent events. It hasn't been this bad in years. Normally it's second nature to partially 'switch-off' the offending sensory system. Yet he can't seem to manage it… his Asperger's tendencies are merging with post-traumatic stress. He understands this, but combating it is another issue altogether.

Exhaustion tugs at his mind and body, yet he is suddenly afraid. What if he wakes up again inside the box? How can he truly be sure this is real?

"We can discuss this more at a later time." The doctor continues, oblivious to the truth behind his patient's distress. "For now, you will need continued follow-up care when you return home. I can recommend several good physicians. I have also contacted a therapist for you to speak with regarding your attack and imprisonment. It will be recommended that you schedule an appointment with someone when you get back."

"The Bureau will make arrangements." Rossi says.

"Good. For now, you will need to remain here under observation for at least a few days. We need to be sure the infection does not return…"

The talking continues over Reid's head. He has stopped caring.

Besides, if this was all just another hallucination, it wouldn't matter.

Three hundred forty-three.

Five hundred twelve.

Seven hundred twenty-nine...

Rossi follows the doctor outside the room. He needs to call the team, but first…

"Agent Rossi. I'm no psychiatrist, but about that second male victim…"

Rossi looks back at Reid through the window in the door. The young man appears to be dozing. The dark circles that habitually form beneath his eyes are even more pronounced now. His skin is pale against the white sheets, but color is starting to return. When they found him he was barely conscious, covered in dried blood and dirt, and going into shock. The team had been certain they were going to lose him.

He shakes his head and turns back to the doctor. "I know. We will investigate further, but…"

He hadn't told Reid everything. They had found James Lee's shotgun just after the two young men had been killed. The unsubs never had time to clean it or get rid of the evidence prior to being confronted. Rossi had seen the blood. Only he and Hotchner knew the results of the DNA test. The blood had been Reid's, and only Reid's. At first they had considered the cause to be residual splatter from a point-blank shot, but traces of fecal matter on the gun pointed in another, more horrifying, direction.

Dr. Burchfiel nods. "A rifle would explain the injuries. Most of the damage would have been caused by the front sight…" He glances at the man lying in the other room. "I can only help him heal physically. Mentally…"

"I understand."

"Good."

Dr. Burchfiel walks away. Rossi moves in the other direction and pulls out his phone. Speed dial two.

"Aaron, it's Dave. Yes, he's awake."

Pause.

"We may have a problem."

.

END.

* * *

_When I originally started this little exercise, this is where I had planned on ending things. Of course, I hadn't counted on certain twists to the story. And now Dr Reid is sitting in the back of my head lecturing me... _

_So… I suppose I wouldn't be adverse to writing a sequel. There are still one or two things I would like to address. It would take time and research; I refuse to post anything until the story is nearly complete… We'll see. _


End file.
